


Lessons In Love

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Oneshot, mostly driven by headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1488073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her name was Meg Masters. Sometimes she walked around the house naked, and sometimes she ate big spoonfuls of peanut butter right out of the jar. She didn't like Cool Whip, but she loved Cheetos. She knew how to wield a katana and shoot a crossbow. She was a half-cleansed demon and maybe Castiel was in a little too deep. But, oh well - that was fine by him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons In Love

Her name was Meg. Sometimes she went by Meg Masters. She was a half-cleansed black-eyed demon, Class B, former student of Alastair and servant of Azazel and Lucifer. She’d spent centuries in Hell. She liked female vessels (blondes were alright, dark eyes and full lips were a must), although she’d inhabited a male once or twice in the past. She’d once been human but she didn’t remember it. She was immune to bullets, could heal from any cut or bruise, teleported at will, but wilted at the first sign of salt. She wore dark denim skinny jeans and thought Dean Winchester smelled like wet dog. 

But that was just her profile, the basic facts. Castiel knew the little details that no one else would notice, simply because they didn’t have the time or patience he did. 

He knew she had once crashed a college frat party wearing a princess tiara and spiked heels. She’d made a drunk teenager wet his pants when he saw her eyes shift to black. 

He knew she didn’t care for football or basketball, but never failed to score a baseball ticket when summer came around. She liked the popcorn at Fenway Park and owned a tattered Red Sox cap she’d stolen from a truck driver. 

He knew she liked to make love twice in a row, the first time rough and the second time slow, and she curled up like a kitten when she slept. 

He knew her favorite pair of underwear had blue and white stripes on them, and always smelled like lavender fabric softener because she washed them so often. Her second favorite pair was lacy and covered in black whales – she referred to them affectionately as her “Shamu panties.” 

He knew she had a safe house in London, because “why the hell not?” 

He knew her weapon of choice was a knife, and she knew ways of torturing that would make terrorists squirm. She could wield a katana and shoot a crossbow, but only picked up a gun as a last resort. Still, when that gun was in her hands – everyone in the room knew the game was over. 

He knew she’d only cried around him twice, and the time with the onions “didn’t count.” 

Sometimes she walked around the house naked, and sometimes she ate big spoonfuls of peanut butter right out of the jar. She didn’t like Cool Whip, but she loved Cheetos. She drank whiskey and bourbon and scotch, and was “not a lightweight.” Castiel still didn’t know what that meant. 

She had a tattoo of a skull and crossbones on her left shoulder, and a nautillus shell on her right. From time to time, Cas would trace his lips along these lines of ink, whenever she slipped her shirt off and crawled onto the couch beside him. She had two distinct reactions to this display of affection – either she’d push him off and demand he turn on the television, or she’d twist around, meeting his lips with hers, pressing into him until their limbs were twisted together, until he was pinned to the couch, struggling to breathe, touching her, smelling her, when all he could taste was sulphur and cinnamon and soap. 

He liked this reaction best. 

He knew her favorite novels were by Stephen King and her favorite sex position could not be found in Cosmopolitan magazine. She thought Brad and Angelina got too much crap, she liked her McDonald’s chicken grilled, not crispy, she believed Bon Iver “spent too much time in the woods,” and she liked to practice knife-throwing on her closet door. 

And the crazy thing about all this was – Castiel had learned these things about her. Never once had he possessed Meg, reached into her soul or pried through her thoughts. He’d picked up her habits from weeks of hunting and talking and arguing and smiling and making love in motel rooms. He’d listened to her stories, the little things she would admit, and asked her questions. He’d paid attention to the way she woke up in the morning, always with a start, always with beads of sweat pooling at the edge of her hairline. 

Castiel had learned Meg. He knew her. He knew her better than anyone else; better even than Lucifer, who had once claimed to be her father and protector. 

So, that night, when she appeared in the kitchen with a swollen eye and a broken leg, he knew exactly what to do. For a moment, he just looked at her: her smug but exhausted smile, the slash across her right cheek, the blistering burn on her neck, the rips in her clothes, the way her left leg dragged behind her at a crooked angle. He stared and tried not to feel angry; she hated when he turned into “Protective Robot-Angel Boyfriend.” 

Instead, he stood up and walked to her. She fell against him, her lips forming the word “angels” as he scooped her into his arms, carrying her into the living room. He absently realized this was a rather romantic gesture – something Humphrey Bogart might have done, in that Casablanca movie Meg had once told him to watch. Except, in this case, Humphrey Bogart was a multi-thousand-year-old angel and Ingrid Bergman was a blood-soaked demon with tattoos and a leather jacket. 

Meg was quiet as he held her, but he could hear her hitched breathing as he laid her across the couch. She met his gaze as he placed his hands on her cheeks, and what he saw there was not affection but trust. Somehow, that was almost better.

“’S angels,” she muttered, as his fingers wove along her skin. Blue light poured from his hands and into her wounds, knitting and sealing, erasing the blood and pus. “Angels, they know. ‘Bout us. Us, Cas.”   
He didn’t reply, but focused his attention on her broken leg. Meg’s fingernails dug into his shoulder as the bones bent back, reattaching and melding together. She cried out, one shrill bark – then it was finished. 

The woman with the dark hair and scarred face sat before him. She was alive and healed, but no less angry.

“They know, Cas.”

“I know.”

“I killed three of them. Nicked their angel blades. But it doesn’t make a difference if they’re just going to keep looking for us. They think you’ve gone rogue again.” 

“I am not a lunatic.”

“Nobody said you were, cupcake, but I’m getting tired of coming home from work with a broken limb and my hands tied behind my back.” 

Castiel looked her up and down, the frayed jacket and the holes in her jeans, waiting for her to make some smart comment about how worried he looked. But she just sighed and stood up, telling him she was hitting the showers. “Oh, and don’t join me this time,” she added. “Shower sex doesn’t sound very appealing after you’ve been beaten within an edge of your life.” 

She walked off, disappearing behind the bedroom door, and he was left alone in the living room with nothing but her bloodstains on the couch upholstery as company. He took a moment to gather his bearings, convincing himself that yes, Meg was safe, Meg was fine, Meg was good. Meg would be alright.

She was angry with him; this he took as fact. Enough weeks with a female demon as a life partner, and you started to learn what passive aggressive behavior looked like. 

Still, he also knew she was frightened. Meg didn’t like to show it, but Castiel knew what she looked like when she was scared. Her lower lip twitched and she frowned too often. It was another one of those details he’d picked up, learned just from watching and observing. 

He knew how to fix this. He could get her to calm down; or, at least, to stop looking at him like he was a piece of moldy bread. He wouldn’t even have to make speeches.

It would just require a trip to the Gas-n-Sip.

By now, he knew the address by heart. 

***  
An hour later, Meg emerged from the bathroom with her wet hair in a towel and a silk robe thrown around her shoulders. It was untied, of course – she’d hate to miss a chance to make Castiel squirm. 

She walked into the kitchen expecting to see him seated by the window, reading a book or listening to the police scanner. He did that a lot these days, tuning into local stations, picking up cases for Sam and Dean. He would sit in a lawnchair and watch the cars on the highway flash by, his hands perfectly still in his lap. It was something she’d noticed about him; something she’d learned without even trying. 

And though Castiel was indeed in the kitchen, he wasn’t sitting in the lawnchair with the obnoxious paisley pattern. He was standing next to the kitchen table, looking at her expectantly. 

The radio was on – except it wasn’t tuned to the police scanner. It was broadcasting tonight’s Red Sox game against the Orioles. The kitchen table was spare - except for one plate and a glass of orange juice. On the plate? A PB&J sandwich with a side bowl of Cheetos. Her laundry was drying on a rack by the window – including her favorite Shamu panties. 

It’s A Wonderful Life was playing on the TV in the living room. It was mid-July; nowhere near Christmas. 

“Clarence, you horrid sap.”

He kissed her then. And that was fine by her. 

***

His name was Castiel. Sometimes he went by Clarence. He was an angel living on stolen grace, once commander of his garrison, Class A, former student of Raphael and servant of Michael. He’d spent centuries in heaven. He liked male vessels (skin color didn’t matter, dark hair was preferable), although he’d inhabited a female once or twice in the past. He’d been human once and learned he liked PB&J. He didn’t like urinating, but enjoyed showering. He was immune to cuts, bruises, slashes, stabs, and bullets, but put him around an angel ward and he melted like the Wicked Witch of the West. He wore a khaki trenchcoat and thought Dean Winchester was the bee’s knees. 

He was also in love with Meg Masters. 

And that was fine by him.


End file.
